Courtly Scandals

by Erin Kane Spock

  “Some nonsense about not being a good wife for me.”

  “Bastards cannot usually marry.” Kit spoke the truth in a nonchalant tone. Any other man knew better than to use the word bastard to Charles, but Kit said it all the time. “Any wife would be better than no wife.”

  He had to smile at Kit’s presumption. “Thank you for that.”

  “You knew what I meant.”

  “I did.” Charles straightened. “Mary told me I deserved a better wife or some offal such as that.”

  “Maybe she believes it,” Kit countered. “She does seem to get herself in trouble frequently. Maybe she thinks too well of you to foist herself upon you.”

  Charles merely raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I know. It’s ridiculous. But she must have some reason.”

  “I’m sure she does. She doesn’t wish to marry me—that is abundantly clear.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she love you?” Kit was really becoming annoying.

  Charles was done talking about this. “She said she did.”

  “Did you tell her you loved her?” Kit, again, stepped over to help with a servant, another young woman, as she stood on a stool and lifted a garland of holly and scarlet silk to a young man on a ladder. She was unsteady and, of course, the best way to steady her was to grip her firmly on the hips. With a smile from ear to ear, Kit said over his shoulder, “You didn’t, did you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I imagine it does to her. There’s a big difference between a marriage proposal born of honor and one born of love. I can see you do not agree. Therefore, there is simply nothing more to discuss and you need to move on.”

  One thing Charles knew for sure was that nothing was simple with Mary and the discussion was far from over.

  • • •

  Girard ran his fingers lightly over the tray of jewels Mistress Parry had presented to Mary. “These are fabulous. Have you ever worn cut gems before?”

  “Yester eve was the first. Cut amber. Before then it was only polished cabochon, though some were very fine. More regularly I have seed pearls and glass beads.”

  “You will look exquisite in these.” Girard held up a pair of ear bobs—jade cabochons surrounded with emerald cut rubies. They almost looked like sparkling flowers. “You have risen farther than you could have imagined. If your father could see you now . . . ”

  “He would criticize me for courtly affectation and see past the potential for the alliance sure to come my way.”

  He held the jewels up beside her face and nodded. “Is that why you are staying on at court?”

  “I did not say I was staying.” Mary twisted her hair at the base of her neck and secured it with a pin.

  “You did not say you weren’t. Besides, I have not heard you talk of marriage since Thomas.” Girard removed the pin from Mary’s hair and spread it out over her shoulders. “Does this mean you are ready to take that step?”

  Mary twisted it again. “No. No, I plan to never marry.” Two pins in quick succession.

  Girard frowned but did not interfere. “That is your prerogative. May I ask why?”

  “I am not a fit wife.” She stabbed a third pin into her coiled hair with more force than was necessary and flinched at the pain in her scalp . . . or maybe even her brain.

  Girard moved to stand behind her again. “Because of your intimacies with your Thomas?” He removed the pins.

  “In part.” Mary grimaced, but let him play with her hair. She would fix it again later. “He was my betrothed, and my virginity seemed of little import even then.”

  “It is of less import now.” Girard’s voice was firm, although his hands were gentle as they separated strands and began a complex braiding pattern. “If you think not to marry because of some warped sense of decency . . . ” He trailed off. “Moppet, have you been to court lately? Do you honestly think virginity is a highly valued attribute?”

  “I know it is not.” Mary sighed. “The truth is that I was pregnant with Thomas’s babe. I had an accident early in the pregnancy . . . ”

  “Accident?” Mary could see in the mirror before her as he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Yes.” She tried to look at him directly, but he used her hair to force her head forward. “The bridge gave out and I was swept away by the river. I almost drowned and suffered a terrible fever. I lost the baby, but I was on my way to visit the midwife for a . . . remedy.” When Girard was silent for a moment, Mary started to squirm again. “My father ordered me. I had no choice.”

  “Except you did.” He stopped his work on her hair and leaned over her shoulder to look her in the eye. “You chose to obey your father.”

  Mary nodded. “I know that now.” Every decision she had allowed to be made for her had ultimately been her own. She had chosen to comply. She was just as responsible for her actions, more so, than Anne, Lord Burghley, Oxford, her father . . . “I’ve been struggling with the decision to stay on with Queen Elizabeth or return to Holme LeSieur under the delusion that I had never had to make a decision for my own future before. It was hard to realize that I have always been the one in control. It is much easier to blame others. But no, there has never been anyone to blame but myself.”

  “I agree.” He leaned back and resumed separating strands. “Now you must forgive yourself.” He punctuated this statement by handing Mary a plait of her hair to hold securely while started on another section.

  Again she tried to turn around. Yank. “What?”

  “Forgiveness.” Girard retrieved the end of the braid from Mary and wove it in to whatever he was doing. “You have to forgive yourself for your perceived failures. You are human. You err. And then you get up off the metaphoric ground, shake out your skirts, smile, and prepare for the next obstacle.”

  Mary was silent. Forgiveness. Didn’t forgiveness imply that everything was all right?

  And if she did forgive herself and move on, what was next? She had no idea. “Charles asked me to marry him.”

  “And you said no?” His voice was clearly disbelieving.

  “Of course! How could I say yes? He deserves a better wife than me.”

  Girard sighed dramatically and stopped his braiding. “Don’t you think he can make that decision for himself?”

  “He doesn’t know all the details.’

  He sighed again, but resumed whatever he was doing to her hair. “What details? About the baby?”

  “No, he knows that. He doesn’t know that I can’t have children.” Hearing the words didn’t seem quite right, as if they did not ring true.

  Girard didn’t pause his actions at all, his plaiting steady. “Why do you think that you cannot have children?”

  “The midwife told me my womb was not strong enough to bear a child. She said that was why I lost the baby.”

  “You didn’t wonder if the accident, drowning, and what-have-you may have been contributing factors?”

  “She’s a midwife. She knows about these things.”

  “So you will not marry Charles because you can’t give him children?” Girard jabbed a pin into her hair.

  “What kind of wife could I be?” Mary tried her best not to jump as he stuck another pin. “A man marries for an heir.”

  Girard sighed yet again—this one was the most impressive. “Do you honestly think Charles proposed to you because he wanted an heir?”

  “He said he wanted me to be the mother of his children.” He had. Everything she was saying was perfectly reasonable. Why did Girard have to be so contrary? She would have really appreciated his support.

  “Then I suppose your intentions are admirable. But how do you know that your potentially barren state would change his mind? He may be proposing for entirely different reasons.”

  “Yes, out of obligation. He owes me nothing. I told him that I could not ever marry at the start so he should not feel honor bound to offer for me.”

  “You are a fool. He loves you.”
Girard started removing pins. His face showed frustration. At her hair? Or at the conversation?

  “He would be a fool to love me.”

  “I agree.”

  Mary scoffed, “Thank you for that.”

  “Seriously Mary, you won’t marry him because you may not be able to have children and you have not even told him why.”

  She turned fully in her seat to face him—she had sat still as long as she could. “He should be relieved that he won’t have to burden himself with me.”

  “God’s teeth!” Girard threw his hands in the air and paced away. “Enough with the self-flagellation. He loves you and you love him. For you to turn him down is ridiculous.” He looked like he wanted to hit something. Instead he threw himself down on the quilted chaise and looked to the sky with a groan.

  Mary rose and walked over to him. “It is not ridiculous.” She lifted her chin. “It is admirable of me to be responsible in spite of my own feelings.”

  “Ah!” Girard’s head snapped up and he looked at her directly. “So you would wish to marry him under different circumstances?”

  “Yes.” That answer sounded right, it resonated with her. She did want to marry him.

  “Then do it. The circumstances you have described are not based on facts but assumptions and your own perceptions of social mores.”

  “People marry for reasons such as heirs.”

  Girard sighed. Again. This time without affectation. He patted the seat next to him and waited until Mary sat down. “Charles has never had the luxury of caring about siring an heir. In fact, he probably lived in fear of it. I am sure his motives are much more romantic.” Girard looked so hopeful at that last comment that Mary hated herself for the possibility of having broken Charles’s heart.

  No. Charles had said nothing of love. “Girard, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I? I suppose I don’t.” He sounded tired. Or defeated. “What I see is a woman being offered a chance at happiness, marriage to the man she loves. You are passing up an opportunity that most people dare not even dream about. You are a fool to throw away love simply because you think it’s the right thing to do. Reach out and grab that happiness with both hands. You deserve to be happy. We all deserve a chance at happiness. Not everyone is so blessed as to have it available to them.”

  Girard squeezed Mary’s hand and leaned over to give her a soft kiss on the cheek before leaving the room.

  Mary sat there in silence. She did have a chance at happiness. She was sure it would be wrong for her to take it . . . but why? Because she couldn’t give Charles children. She’d made the decision of what was best for him without consulting him because she didn’t want him to feel any more obligated to her than he already did. But by taking away his choice, was she really just punishing herself?

  And if Charles really did care for her, was she punishing him as well?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a crush and the heat was suffocating. Full skirts pressed against skirts pressed against padded slops. Capes were flung carelessly over one shoulder, held in place by open-ended pins. Dress swords dangled casually against silken venetians and created hazards for the unaware courtier. Perfume, powder, artful ringlets, and sharply faceted gems—it was overwhelming and invigorating. Court was out in all its finery and anything could happen. Here in Whitehall Palace’s grand hall were the elite of the elite. The guests, personally welcomed by Queen Elizabeth Herself, all of them bearing elaborate and expensive gifts for the Queen and for high-ranking peers of the realm.

  And there was always the anticipation—would the Queen bestow gifts in return? She might. She had done so in the past.

  Mary blended in with the crowd, equally as fine. She was accepted by the Queen and none could gainsay that final authority, but Mary was unable to truly get into the spirit of the Twelfth Night revelry. All she could think about was that she had thrown away a chance at true happiness for no real reason. Well, she thought it was a reason, but it was hubris to think that she had the right to decide the course of actions for others. She had broken her own heart and had no one to blame but herself. It could not get worse.

  Well, actually, it could. There was still the chance that the Earl of Oxford might chose to name her as his attacker.

  “The Countess of Spencer.” The lord chamberlain announced one of the first prodigious guests to present a Twelfth Night gift to the Queen.

  “Your Majesty, I come bearing six mature lemon trees from my orangery at Chatholme Manor along with two dozen jars of lemon curd.”

  Queen Elizabeth inclined her head graciously as an army of servants bearing litters paraded the full-sized trees, their roots confined to boxes, through the hall. Lady Spencer herself had a platter of buttered scones topped with the aforementioned lemon curd. She was given the privilege of stepping up on the dais and presenting them directly to the Queen.

  Queen Elizabeth took a bite and invited Lady Spencer, a longtime confidant, to share.

  The court was silent, each individual straining to hear the subdued conversation between the Queen and Lady Spencer. When Lady Spencer was finally dismissed and the tray of scones removed, the herald announced the next noble bearing gifts.

  “Master William Howe representing the Countess of Dorset.”

  “Baroness Rich.”

  “Sir Ralph Sadler.”

  “Lord and Lady Howard of Effingham.”

  Mary lost track of names as she stood to the side of the dais beside Mistress Parry. She concentrated on holding her position in spite of the jostling crowd that pressed forward to see the display. It was a stately procession of courtiers as, one by one, they each brought Queen Elizabeth fabulous gifts. Jewelry, gowns, a horse, barrels of ale . . .

  “Master Christopher Hatton, Captain of the Queen’s guard.”

  Mary smiled as Kit stepped in front of the dais and went down on one knee with elegance. “Your Majesty, I thank you for receiving me this day.”

  “I assume I will not simply be receiving you, but some sign of your regard for Our person.”

  “As always, Your Majesty, your wit does you credit. I did bring a gift for You. A trifling thing.”

  “If it is indeed a trifling thing, it is a wonder you saw fit to make it a present.”

  Kit looked as if he was biting his tongue. “Not so trifling, Madam. It was merely a figure of speech.”

  “Well, sirrah, out with it!” Queen Elizabeth rose from Her Chair of State and the entire court dropped into a reverance. She waited until she reached Kit before gesturing for all to recover themselves. “I find my patience grows thin.”

  Mary did not know enough about the Queen’s moods to determine whether She was being playful or not.

  Kit stood from his kneeling position when the Queen gave the court leave to rise. With a flick of his hand, he gestured a servant to join him. The man was bearing a black leather upholstered box.

  The man handed it to Kit who then opened and handed it to the Queen.

  Queen Elizabeth gasped, her delight plain for all to see. “Kit, this is lovely. What is this stone?”

  “It is called turquoise, Your Grace. A precious stone from the New World. They say the color deepens, intensifies, the longer it lies against your skin.”

  Queen Elizabeth lifted her eyes from the beautiful necklace to Kit and smiled. “Not simply beautiful jewelry, but something that will become an intimate of mine. Well chosen, Master Hatton.”

  She handed the box to one of her ladies and gestured for another of her servants to step forward. “We have a Twelfth Night gift for Our Captain of the Guard.”

  Kit dropped to one knee again. “Your Majesty honors me too much.”

  “Not at all.” Queen Elizabeth’s tone was dismissive as two men stepped forward bearing what looked like a pedestal covered in a shroud of black cloth.

  “Pray you, rise, Kit. Unveil your present.”

  Kit stood and removed the shroud to uncover . . . a bronzed boot.
<
br />   “What on earth is that?” Mary whispered.

  Mistress Parry leaned closer. “Master Hatton has been missing a boot for some days now.”

  Both ladies stifled their laughter as Kit gingerly touched the hard metal surface of what used to be his boot. He turned to the Queen. “I am dumbfounded.”

  “Indeed, you are.” She turned her back to him and stepped back on the dais. “We find you much courtlier in slippers. I am sure all my ladies agree . . . ” Her comment was answered with twittered affirmations. “No man who dances as well as you should be encumbered by boots.”

  Kit’s face was a mask of serenity.

  “I am sure many of Our gentlemen agree. What say you, Oxford?”

  The giggling that had made a wave through the room stopped abruptly as a wave of whispers took its place.

  The Earl of Oxford stepped forward and went down on one knee for Queen Elizabeth. “Your Majesty, I only ever wear boots when I am bound for a ride. Dancing requires more refinement.”

  Queen Elizabeth gave Oxford leave to rise and smiled. “You are welcome back to Our court. I trust you are recovered?”

  “I am. Thank you, Your Majesty.” Although he was not as quick to rise as a man of his young age should be. He was probably still in pain. “I am glad to be able to join Your court for Twelfth Night.”

  “We are pleased as well. In fact, Our steward has informed Us that there is a gift ready to be presented to you.”

  Oxford looked around as the herald announced, “Sir William Cecil, Baron Burghley.”

  Burghley stepped forward and began to kneel before the Queen. She stopped him. “Come now, Cecil, We will have none of that. What sort of gift have you for your dear son?”

  “The gift of song, Your Grace.” Burghley gestured with his cane, and a young man, splendidly bedecked in the costume of a motley fool, stepped forward and began strumming on his lute.

  Girard.

  A simple chord marked the start of the song. “Hark, jolly shepherd, Hark! Hark you yond lusty ringing!” His tenor rang out clear in the hall.

  Oxford’s face blanched.

  “How cheerfully the bells dance whilst the jolly lads are springing,” Girard continued, plucking a playful tune between the strummed verses. The song was simple and innocent, but no one would think so from Oxford’s horrified expression. “Go then, why sit we here delaying, and all yon lad and merry lasses playing . . .”